


The Things We Would Take with Us in Case of a Natural Disaster

by parttimehuman



Category: Druck | SKAM (Germany)
Genre: Boys In Love, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Masturbation, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, Warning - Graphic Depicitons of super sweet kisses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2020-01-06 12:27:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18388445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parttimehuman/pseuds/parttimehuman
Summary: After having the infamous Pasta alla Luigi for breakfast, Matteo lies in bed basking in the memories of the weekend he and David spent together. Remembering the kisses they've shared, he can't stop his thoughts from turning a little dirty.





	The Things We Would Take with Us in Case of a Natural Disaster

**Author's Note:**

> So, funny story. I thought I'd climbed out of the Skam hole for a solid two years. Until Druck came along on my tumblr dash. Now that I've binge-watched everything there is of season 3 so far, I couldn't stop myself from imagining a (borderline disturbingly) happy Matteo being drunk on love. Nobody asked for this, but here we are.

Waking up to a new day never stops the nightmare - never. It always continues, asleep or not, the battery of his phone running low, the battery of his body even lower, the one of his brain seemingly non-existent. It’s always the same sticky air in his room and the same smell of sleep and sweat clinging to his sheets, the same blinding sun hurting his eyes, the same people expecting things of him. Things he doesn’t even know what they’re supposed to be good for. Like telling your girlfriend if her shirt looks nice, as if she didn’t have a pair of perfectly functioning eyes and a way better fashion sense anyway.

 

Usually, Matteo runs late for school or whatever obligatory bullshit appointment he’s in for, not because he doesn’t have time, but because his only real talent is  _ wasting _ time doing nothing, not knowing where it went when he’s all out of it. Usually, his daily routine includes a fundamental amount of time agonizing over the mirror that he has to pass in order to leave the house, knowing that he won’t be satisfied with the way he looks. Not that Matteo is terrible to look at, it’s just that one brief look at him is enough to be able to tell exactly how tired and drained of all motivation he is. Empty, Matteo wants to say. 

 

Usually, he doesn’t stop to grab a bite of food before he starts his day, mostly because his own section in the shared fridge is empty (if he’s lucky - if not, something’s molding right in front of his eyes), and Matteo doesn’t have the energy to defend himself in front of his flatmates for stealing their food again. He’s done it before, and it definitely didn’t taste good enough to be worth the discussions that followed. 

 

Usually, there’s nothing to do because all options are pointless, so he scrolls through his phone without absorbing much of what he’s looking at, sitting on the floor or lying in bed in a position that’s neither comfortable nor worth changing. Life is simply something that happens to him, whether he wants it or not, and most of the time, he’s too weak and too overwhelmed and too clueless to do anything about it. 

 

Usually, days go by like that, and once it’s dark outside again, Matteo tells himself nobody can blame him for going to bed again. Usually, the thought that he hasn’t disappointed anyone in one day is enough to keep up the illusion that he’s somewhat successful at life. Usually, that’s all there is to him.

 

On a Sunday in early April though, it’s not. Nothing, absolutely nothing feels like it usually would. If Matteo could manage to stop stupid-grinning for a moment, he’d probably feel some sort of pain due to the unfamiliarity of the emotional state he finds himself in, but he can’t. He’s not trying, but even if he were, it would be impossible. 

 

Waking up doesn’t feel like being dragged up from underwater against his will this time. It starts even before his eyes open, before he’s consciously perceiving anything at all. It’s just a tingle somewhere in his chest, waking him from deeper down inside than he’s ever known possible. 

 

He feels warm and happy before he remembers the reason, eyes dropping to the drawing resting next to his pillows, black ink on white paper, a message left for him that nobody else would understand even if they found it. David, with a toaster clutched to his chest, arms tightly wrapped around it.  _ What I would take with me…  _ written below, a call back to one of the many conversations they had over the weekend Matteo could convince David to spend in bed with him. 

 

While the first wave of happiness crashing over him comes from the recognition of what has clearly become their  _ thing _ , and that even when he left, David made sure to bring it up again, there comes a second wave after a few moments of looking at the drawing, one that isn’t so surprising, not so sudden, but takes Matteo with it mercilessly, stealing away the ground from beneath his feet, making him feel weightless, soaring. 

 

Since the moment he first took a peek into David’s notebook, Matteo has been in absolute awe of his artistic talent and in love with his creations, but now he has one that belongs to him, made  _ for  _ him,  _ because of  _ him. One that makes his heart beat faster with how  _ David  _ it is, how the black of the clothes and the figure’s smile and the slightly crooked letters belong to the language he speaks when words aren’t the right things to say, how Matteo gets to hold this drawing in his own hands and keep it and treasure it, whatever may happen between the two of them in the future. 

 

He can’t help it, can’t fight the pure bliss, even when the WhatsApp messages he’s missed all sound like he’s supposed to be sorry, like he’s supposed to apologize and try to be better. To change. For the first time in forever, Matteo doesn’t want to change a thing. Not a single damn thing. 

 

He looks ridiculous and he knows it. He can tell from the looks he gets as he jumps through the kitchen door how absolutely weird he’s being, and cooking pasta at nine-thirty in the morning surely doesn’t help his case either, but he can’t find it in him to mind. He’s in the mood for something nice to eat, and hell yes, he’ll even share, pretending not to hear the girls whispering behind his back as he cuts up a tomato. So what if they think he’s finally gone completely insane? 

 

Raw tomatoes are a fantastic snack and so are uncooked spaghetti, sue him. The meal tastes excellent and Matteo stays to sit at the kitchen table to eat instead of retreating to his bedroom, that’s how great he feels. Although the status of his preparations for the remaining exams has absolutely not changed for the better, he brushes the topic off with a smile, claiming to have it all under control. Beautiful, beautiful lies. 

 

When he returns to his room, Matteo cracks a window open but refuses to change the bedding. He probably should, but the pillow smells like David, and although it smells like Matteo’s disgusting because nearly non-existent cleaning habits too, he can’t stop rubbing his face all over it and breathing in the wonderful scent. It’s the best possible sort of proof that David being there with him for almost two days wasn’t just a dream.

 

What Matteo would take with him in case of a natural disaster is what he takes with him underneath the blanket, a drawing instead of his phone, and with it an abundance of feelings he always had his suspicions would exist in some form, but has never had for himself before. The sacredness of a memory that he isn’t ever going to let go of. The excitement for what’s going to happen next. A deep and heavy contentment with the point he’s at in his life. Thoughts running so wild that it’s hard to keep track of them, simply because there are so many new and beautiful things to consider. 

 

He wonders what David is doing. Is he thinking the same? For Matteo, as much as he hates being alone, being lonely, it has always been easy to tell himself not to get attached. He isn’t the coolest guy at school to be friends with, and he knows it. He isn’t exceptionally good looking and he isn’t exceptionally good at anything other than pretending to be a sloth, really. He’s not a bad guy, and sure, he does have a couple of friends that he supposes actually like him. What on earth Sara wants from him, who even knows? 

 

With David, Matteo can’t tell himself it doesn’t matter. He does care. He does care what David thinks of him, and if he ever does at all. He wants David to like him, to have liked the weekend, to have liked kissing him. He’s never expected anyone to want him in their life, because he’s nothing special and he understands that there are better options, but now he finds himself  _ wanting _ , and being alone just because others are prettier and funnier and smarter and more interesting in any way at all, it’s just not a good enough reason anymore. 

 

Matteo sighs and closes his eyes, pressing the drawing he can’t see underneath the blanket against his chest. He isn’t used to this - Why would one make a habit of wanting something that nobody ever offers to them? - but that doesn’t mean it’s not happening. David isn’t just different, he makes Matteo different, too. So different. 

 

Matteo thinks about Sara and all the times they’ve kissed. She’s pretty, she really is, he can’t deny that. He likes her humor and he likes that she can be playful at times. Out of all the girls at his school, she’s still the only one he’s ever so much as considered kissing, but still. It’s not the real thing, and nothing can change that. She’s annoying him, not because she’s doing anything wrong, but because Matteo has managed to get himself into a relationship that suffocates him, and there’s no way to stop hurting himself without hurting Sara, and no matter how annoying she gets, he still doesn’t want that. 

 

Sara was his best try, but there’s nothing more to it, and never will be. She doesn’t make his heart beat faster and she doesn’t make his cheeks go all hot. She doesn’t make his hands sweaty and trembling. It doesn’t feel like she’s cracking him open with one look into his eyes. It just doesn’t, and it’s not because Matteo doesn’t function like that, as he now knows, because there’s someone who can. 

 

There’s someone who can do all that without even trying. Someone who can make goosebumps rise on his skin with one featherlight brush of a finger. Someone who makes his heart skip a beat and his breath hitch, who makes him stupidly speechless in one second and even more stupidly chatty in the next one. Someone who intrigues him in a way he hasn’t known before, who makes him want to unravel them, no matter how long it will take. 

 

Matteo briefly thinks that he’d pack his bags and get on his way to Detroit right after his last exam if that someone asked him to, how he’d search the entire city for an empty swimming pool just so he could hold his breath again, and then release it, lose all the games in the world if need be, only to get to kiss David again. And then again, preferably, and again and again and again and never stop. What he would take with him is one person, and he doesn’t need to think about his choice for even a second. 

 

With the warmth of the blanket and the slept in bed engulfing him, it’s easy to keep his eyes shut and pretend. Pretend like David is still by his side, close enough so he can feel soft, warm puffs of breath against his cheek, gentle fingers playing with his hair, lips brushing over the corner of his mouth. He’s never wished for those things, not until David showed them what they can feel like, showed him the explosion that can happen inside his chest with just one kiss. 

 

All the talking with the other guys about getting blown and fucking girls has made it seem like those were the ultimate goals, like there was no higher level of enjoying another person’s proximity possible, but Matteo knows now that that’s not true at all. He wants to bury his hands in David’s hair and pull him close, wants to be allowed to look into his beautiful, big brown eyes from up close, wants to catch a fallen out eyelash with his finger. 

 

He wants to wrap his arms around David, wants to press their chests together until their hearts are beating in synchrony. He wants to hold him and to be held in return, wants to have all that matters to him in his arms and feel like that’s enough to take on the world. He wants to rub his nose against soft skin. He wants them to talk in whispers that are so quiet they need to bring their lips right to each other’s ear to be heard. He wants their fingers entangled, because as it has ultimately turned out, hell yes, he does like holding hands a lot, just not with anyone. 

 

He wants legs slung around each other and careful, gentle kisses on cheeks and foreheads and the backs of hands. He wants staring contests that end either in uncontrollable laughter or deep kisses. He wants his lips to feel sore and swollen from kissing and he wants to feel safe when he falls asleep with another body breathing next to his own. 

 

Like being gifted something breathtakingly perfect, Matteo feels as grateful for the weekend he’s had so far as he feels greedy for more of it, more of David, more of David and him together. He can feel something when he’s with David, something he doesn’t try to avoid feeling, which shouldn’t be such a miracle to him, but it is, and he has no time to think about what that says about him. Things are complicated outside of his bed, sure, but under the blanket, Matteo’s world is pretty. 

 

The drawing between his fingers and his heaving and sinking chest, he imagines what he would do if he got to do what he wanted. He would grab David by the neck and then stop just one or maybe half a centimetre before touching his lips, waiting for David to close the remaining distance between them. There’d be one careful, curious, probing kiss, and then they’d both tilt their heads and hold onto each other, finding all the possible ways to connect their lips and press them together. 

 

David would do that thing with his tongue and Matteo would let him, loving it, parting his lips, not caring that he wouldn’t know what he’d be doing. It would feel exactly right. They’d map out with their hands what they’d be able to reach of each other - cheeks, jaws, neck and shoulders, hair, arms, hands. Matteo would make that squeak again when David would bite his lower lip gently, and he would only feel embarrassed for a second before melting into him. 

 

They’d kiss until time would stop, going from soft and gentle to curious and testing to messy and hungry and back to tender brushes of lips against each other again, repeating the same things over and over again to learn everything they like by heart. The atmosphere would change from sweet and romantic to heated to lazy and they’d roll with it, pushing up from the bed to sit upright in each other’s lap and then lying back down again, snuggling up against another. 

 

In the end, if he truly got to do what he’d truly want in that situation, because Matteo is only human, and a teenager, and by no means an innocent one, he wouldn’t be able to keep his hands off of David. The feeling of skin and hair and muscles and body warmth and life beneath his fingers would be addictive, and with David’s permission, he’d give in to the temptation. 

 

Matteo pulls down the blanket covering his face so that he can breathe fresh air, his heels digging into the mattress, teeth sinking into his lower lip as he lets his thoughts run freely, hands roaming, stroking up and down his own arms. 

 

He’d definitely try to kiss David’s neck, right where he’d feel his pulse against his lips. He’d be so curious to see and feel and possibly hear David’s reaction, to find out how responsive he is to it, how sensitive. If David wouldn’t stop him, he certainly wouldn’t stop either. He’d continue exploring every bit of David’s body, touching him, holding him, placing a thousand kisses everywhere until he would be sure that not a part of the other boy would be unkissed. Maybe, if he’d feel bold, he would suck a little bruise into David’s skin, leaving a mark, his very own version of creating an art piece. 

 

He isn’t trying to turn his treasured memories of David into something dirty, but there’s only so much Matteo can do against the desire burning like fire inside him, blue flames licking at his insides, threatening to consume him. He isn’t used to  _ wanting _ anything at all this badly, so he doesn’t know where to stop and how. It’s not like anybody is there to judge him, so he simply doesn’t stop. Instead, he tugs at the hem of his t-shirt, just a little at first, almost like it could as well be an accident that it rides up far enough to leave his stomach exposed. 

 

Never before has Matteo taken the time to go slowly about it, to touch his own body not with the purpose of heightening his arousal but because it simply feels good. One hand stays low on his belly and one wanders up beneath the light blue shirt, stroking across his chest, fingertips merely brushing his nipples, but the effect is enormous. If David ever touches him like he’s touching himself right now, Matteo will be in absolute heaven. 

 

He almost doesn’t have the patience to be as gentle and thorough as he wants to because of how amazing the sensation is, pulling at the t-shirt until it’s out of the way, carelessly throwing it on top of one of the many other piles of dirty clothes gathering in his room. Matteo’s own hands certainly don’t feel as good as David’s would, but they’re still pretty much doing the job of turning him own so much that precome is bleeding through the front of his grey sweatpants and leaving a dark, damp spot in the middle of a well visible tent. 

 

There’s only so much fantasizing about more of David’s sinful kisses and his hands touching Matteo that he can take before he needs to do something about his almost achingly hard dick and the way it’s caged inside two layers of clothing. He reaches down and lets out a gasp when a finger brushes over the leaking tip. He’s so damn sensitive. 

 

There’s one particular moment when the thread that is Matteo’s patience snaps and he yanks his pants and underwear down at the same time, not even bothering to take them all the way off. He just pushes them far enough down so he can spread his thighs a little and wraps a hand around his cock, head falling back with a moan and teeth digging deeper into his lip at the contact. 

 

He thinks about David on his bike, smiling and laughing and leading the way, not showing any sign of exhaustion, legs working to keep the wheels spinning in an effortless elegance. He thinks about the way he announced that he won when he reached the wall of the swimming pool first, and then a second time in the silence after his lips had been pressed to Matteo’s. With closed eyes, he pictures the spark in David’s soft, dark eyes, and the smile to go along with it, and then the image of the smile turning into something else, eyelids fluttering shut, the anticipation of a kiss nearly killing Matteo, killing him in the best way possible, killing him so softly. 

 

He takes a shaky breath out and begins stroking himself, hand moving up around the length of his dick until he can rub his thumb over the weeping slit, making a strangled noise. He rolls his hips and thrusts upwards, meeting the movements of his fist, breathing becoming heavy and erratic in a matter of moments. 

 

He remembers the taste of David’s lips and the feeling of his body weight on top of him. Matteo’s back arches off the mattress, straining, longing. He moves his hand faster, pumping his cock, barely able to contain himself. He brings a hand up to his mouth to bite into and muffle the uncontrolled noises that want out of him apparently, but somehow, even with his teeth around the flesh of his own hand, David’s name still escapes his mouth in half whispers and half whines. 

 

The memory of David on top of him in his bed, of half-lidded eyes and shiny, wet, parted lips and the hint of a sharp collarbone peeking out from beneath a messy, wrinkled up shirt combined with the fast and steady rhythm of his own hand jerking his dick sends Matteo tumbling over the edge and falling for sweet, long moments, cock pulsing and shooting his release onto his stomach in thick spurts, coating his hand and messing up the blanket he now definitely has to change the cover of. 

 

“Fuck,” Matteo mumbles, taking a look at the bitemarks in his own hand, panting heavily, trying to come down from the high of his orgasm - possibly the best one he’s had so far, unsurprisingly to him. So that’s a thing that’s happened now, and David didn’t even need to be around to be the reason for it. He’s fucked, Matteo thinks, big time, but for some reason, he can’t be mad about it. 

 

Not that he had any doubts about it before, but now he definitely knows what he would take with him… 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope at least _someone_ enjoyed this. If you did, then that's enough for me, but kudos and/or comments make me insanely and ridiculously happy, so try it! 
> 
> This might be a one time thing or not, depending on further inspiration. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
